


Warrior's Heart

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [44]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 21:22:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4321230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As his beloved friend slowly ebbs away, Ragnar thinks of the things they have in common.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warrior's Heart

Torstein was dying, and there was nothing for it.

It was late evening. Most of the camp had bedded down for the night, building strength for the morning climb up the mountain to where Burgred’s forces had dug in. Rest, however, had eluded Ragnar. His beloved friend lay nearby, drifting in and out of a fitful, fevered sleep, the stump of his arm still oozing blood and foulness. Ragnar’s was weary and his spirit was troubled. Dying long after battle of an infection would likely prevent Torstein from going to Valhalla to join his other long-passed friends—Kauko, Erik, Leif, Arne, among others—and the thought saddened him. Yet his sadness was also, in part, somewhat selfish.

He looked around the camp. Of the hundreds of other warriors that surrounded them, only his son knew the truth of Ragnar’s heart. With Torstein would die his last hope of a friend who understood and accepted the depth of feeling he had for Athelstan, and why, despite the others’ continuing mistrust of the Christian in their midst, his loyalty to the man never faltered.

But perhaps, he thought, as he saw someone approaching the ailing warrior with clean bandages and a pot of freshly boiled water, there was another who might understand the intensity of his feelings for another man. Floki’s mood had been dark since the moment they arrived, his hatred for the Saxons and their God peppered into every conversation he had. Yet once he realized Torstein was gravely wounded, that mood had become downright black with rot. It was a feeling Ragnar knew well: the feeling he’d had when he believed Athelstan to be lost.

He had never known the details—and would never have asked—but he knew that Torstein had shared a bed with Floki and Helga on more than one occasion—many more, in fact. There was a week-long stretch during the damp, cold spring when he was recovering from Haraldson’s attack when Torstein slept in their curtained alcove every night. And every night, said alcove echoed with delighted whispers and sighs. Torstein, he knew, was never a man to give his heart to anyone, yet through a long and ever-changing stream of women, his bond with Floki had only deepened.

Their one point of contention—and it was a point shared with Helga, too—was Athelstan. For a few years after the battle with Jarl Borg, Floki had been grudgingly accepting of Athelstan’s presence, though he always seemed to stop short of showing any overt affection for him. Indeed, despite his contempt for the man as a slave, his foul attitude seemed only to get worse once Ragnar had given the man his freedom. Torstein and Helga, however, had plenty of respect and kind feelings for the young former priest, and often chided Floki when he spat yet another bit of venom that direction.

He had overheard a conversation between them once: Floki joked, within Athelstan’s hearing, that perhaps he should carve a wooden rune with a sign of the Christian cross, and then burn it as an offering to Odin. "Enough!” Torstein had growled, and Helga, exasperated, simply got up and walked away to go help Siggy thread a loom. Floki had glared daggers at both, but shut up; these were not people he cared to anger, even if he disagreed with their affection for the Christian. Indeed, he was at his most calm and sensible when one or the other—or both—were nearby to soothe his frenetic spirit.

Torstein had once implied that his friendship with Floki was somewhat more intimate than usual, but Ragnar knew neither of them would ever have called what they had by the same words he and Athelstan used for each other. Still, though their physical contact may have been limited to a few tangled limbs while Helga lay between them, their hearts were obviously entangled, too.

Given that, however deep the grief Ragnar felt at the impending loss of a beloved, understanding friend, Floki’s grief at that same loss would undoubtedly be deeper by far. Ragnar couldn’t bear the thought that Athelstan would ever die. He had dealt with that grief once before when Athelstan was presumed lost; he didn’t want to face it again. He was, secretly, quite glad that Ecbert had insisted Athelstan stay behind to play translator and diplomat, rather than risking his life in this bloody battle for Mercia. Whatever dangers Ecbert posed, they at least wouldn’t likely lead to Athelstan’s demise. Ragnar could imagine, therefore, how Floki might be feeling right now as Torstein lay shivering and red-faced, his life being squeezed from his body by the poison that had taken hold of it.

For a moment, Floki got up, leaving Torstein’s side to discard the soiled bandages he had just changed. Ragnar took the opportunity to take his place.

When he got there, Torstein was awake, and almost lucid. “You look strange now, Floki,” he said, with a weak smile.

“I did not feel like painting my face today,” Ragnar teased.

“That explains it, then!” Torstein coughed, and winced. After he had calmed, he spoke again. “How are you, my friend?”

Ragnar frowned. “How am I? Who cares? I am the last person for whom you should be concerned.”

Torstein made a noncommittal noise. “I have seen the trouble on your face. You do not want to be here.”

“I do not. Yet I know why we must. This is a duty, not a pleasure.” He studied his fidgeting hands. “I know Floki is even less happy about this, though.”

Torstein's nose wrinkled. “Floki would not be happy unless we were slaughtering all of these Saxons instead of fighting beside some of them.”

"True.”

Torstein lowered his voice. “Ragnar, be careful of him.”

Ragnar’s heart fluttered. “Of Floki? Why?”

“I have never seen him in such a dudgeon. It may be his usual exaggeration and petulance, but some of the things he has said . . ."

"What things?"

"About why we are here," Torstein said. "About what made you agree to this battle. About . . . Athelstan. At first, I thought he was just being childish, but he will no longer listen to me when I try to pull him out of these fits.”

Ragnar felt a quiver low in his gut, and his meager evening meal burned in his chest. Still, he didn’t want to distress Torstein by telling him that he, too, had felt such worry. “I am sure it is nothing. Floki barks like a foam-mouthed dog, but he does not bite.”

Torstein looked unconvinced. “Just be wary.”

Ragnar nodded. “I will. Of course I will.”

Torstein's expression relaxed again, and his voice grew tender. "You miss him. Athelstan, I mean.”

Ragnar smiled. “Always. I am glad he is far away from battle this time, but I admit that my heart aches not to have him near.”

“I am sure your heart is not all that aches.” Torstein managed a teasing smile.

Ragnar laughed. “There is the Torstein I know!”

“I admit I miss him, too,” Torstein said, growing serious again. “He has become a good and cherished friend to me, and I fear . . .” He looked away, and a few sticky tears worked their way from his red eyes. Then he looked again at Ragnar. “If you see him again before I do, please tell him that I wish him well, and that I will ask the gods to watch over him—even if they have to wait their turn after his own god.”

Ragnar’s eyes stung, and he blinked. It would not do to cry. Not now. “I will tell him, my friend.” He lay a hand on Torstein’s hot, damp cheek, wishing his touch could soothe the fever within. “You should go back to sleep for now. The camp will be rising at dawn—they will not let you sleep in, I am afraid.”

“I hope they do not,” Torstein declared. “You should sleep, too.”

“I may.” Ragnar leaned over, dropping the smallest of kisses on Torstein’s forehead.

“I do not think that will heal him, Ragnar," a sour voice behind him declared.

Ragnar turned. Floki had come back with a cup of broth and a tincture of herbs. His expression was twisted and impatient. “Perhaps not,” Ragnar acknowledged. “I will leave that to you.” Rising, he nodded at Floki and moved aside so he could get back to work.

“Good,” Floki snarled. Then his voice went gentle again, as he turned back to his patient. “I have brought you something to help you sleep and help your dreams be pleasant. Come! Drink it all up!” He pressed the cup to Torstein’s lips.

Torstein reached up, pushing the cup aside. “Ragnar,” he called.

Ragnar looked back.

“Remember what I said, yes?”

“I will. Sleep well. And take your medicine! That is an order from your king.”

Torstein laughed, and then groaned. Floki pushed the cup against his mouth again.

Ragnar walked away, then sat down again under a tree. He watched as Floki ministered to his friend. It was all in vain, but Floki would likely stay awake all night, trying at least to protect Torstein from the worst of the pain. To protect his own beloved, Ragnar knew, he would undoubtedly do the same and more. He only hoped he would never have to.


End file.
